


Starlight and Fireflies

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (which I think are all accurate), Cheek Kisses, Fireflies, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Quest, References to the Silmarillion, Smoochtober 2018, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: On a night Frodo and Sam spend stargazing among fireflies, compliments and promises are exchanged, along with a pair of kisses.





	Starlight and Fireflies

**Author's Note:**

> This story works under the the thought that hobbits (or Bilbo and Frodo, anyway) know a bit more about elvish history than any of the official material implies.  
> Based on [this prompt](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/132744) for Smoochtober 2018, #3: Kiss on the Cheek.

A chorus of crickets and spring peepers chirped softly across the rolling hills of Hobbiton in the night, and only a few lights remained in the windows of the village below. Atop the Hill under which resided the esteemed estate of Bag End (whose lights had gone out not long ago), was an oak tree that had grown on its crown for as long as any hobbit within the West Farthing could remember. It was as large and strong as it had surely been in its youth, and its many and great branches were in full flourish with vibrant, green leaves of late spring.

A troupe of fireflies had gathered beneath the great oak to give some sort of grand performance, it seemed, though their only audience happened to be their kin, and two hobbits below even them.

On a soft blue blanket that appeared grey outside the light of their lantern, lay two hobbits on their backs, bodies pointed opposite directions so their heads were together, and would look upside down to the other if they turned to gaze at their companion. With them was a book they referred to intermittently in the faint light of their lamp (which had also attracted a few moths, as yet unharmed by the small flame flickering behind the glass), and they spoke in hushed whispers, as if trying not to disturb the world of night about them.

“An' that's Eärendil's Star, aye?” asked Sam, pointing to an illustration in the book Frodo held aloft, before pointing up to the star-studded sky. Frodo shifted and squirmed, trying to get his line of sight as close to Sam's to follow his gaze. “The brightest one,” Sam added, “in this part of the sky, that is.”

“Yes, I think so.” Frodo answered at last, settling back to his earlier position. He was quiet for a moment, and the shadows and lamplight played a dance over the contours of his face as the flame flickered. “Many still call it Gil-Estel; the Star of High Hope. If it hadn't been for Eärendil, the Valar would never have overthrown the Dark Lord, nor would Elrond be Lord of the Last Homely House, nor would there be a now broken line of Kings in Gondor.”

Sam looked at the spot of light a world away. “Do you suppose he's lonely up there? His Lady Wife – Elwing? – ain't up there with 'im, is she?”

Frodo's eyes flickered up, unseeing as he peered into his memory. “No,” he said slowly, “no, she isn't. But she was given a tower in Valinor, and there she feeds the seabirds that visit her. I think I remember Bilbo saying she learned to take the form of a swan from them, and flies up to meet Eärendil when he returns from voyaging in the sky.”

“Well, mayhap if he comes back at dawn every morn, that ain't so bad.” Sam looked thoughtful, furrowing his brow. “But then he's always needin' t'leave again come night...”

“Until the supposed Dagor Dagorath.” said Frodo, pursing his lips. Among the expansive Elvish tales he'd learned of, the foretelling of the apocalypse was not one of his favorites. “Then he's supposed to descend as a white flame upon the Dark Lord as he returns, though it won't be his hand that slays him. … From the bits Bilbo's told me from the tales he's heard of Elves and Dwarves, it's all supposed to be quite the event. I wonder if hobbits will have any part to play in such tales of glory, and if we'll be allowed to join in the Second Song, or whatever it's supposed to be.”

Sam chuckled and blushed, hoping to lighten the grumpy mood Frodo was wandering into. “Part o' me rightly hopes not; May an' me Gaffer both say I sound sommat like a hoarse crow when I try a bit o' song.”

Sam's tactic worked, and Frodo raised a hand to playfully push Sam's shoulder. “I think you've a lovely voice. You sing Bilbo's old walking songs well enough for me, anyway.”

“Aye, well, them tunes're as old as the hills, an' it's my mind anyone born in 'em knows 'em soon as their eyes're open. I ain't nothin' much special.”

“Mm,” Frodo grumbled, and gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze, “you've heard that from your Gaffer much too much. It's not every hobbit that cares enough for the stars to learn – much less remember – their names, you know, or the host of other wonderful things you do.”

Sam could feel a pleased and abashed heat warming his ears. “Well- if that's your measure, I leastways ain't unique then, considerin' you do it all too, an' better by far.”

Frodo snorted with laughter, startling a few moths a bit farther away from their lamp. “That's only because Bilbo took me in and has taught me so much. Without him, I think I should be as bad as- Merry perhaps. Not that he's a bad young fellow, but too impish for his own good, and doesn't mind his books quite enough for Bilbo's tastes.

“Anyway Sam, I don't think myself terribly more special than you in any way. In fact, I think you quite ought to stop thinking that way, and in any case I shall start pointedly opposing you whenever you should speak such thoughts aloud.”

Sam rubbed his cheek, glad to be nearer the lamp to explain the redness of his face. “I _think_ I'm glad of that.”

“Now, see- which constellation are those three stars part of?” and Frodo raised his hand to point.  
Sam followed his direction, and replied a moment after, “Eksiqilta, or the Belt of Menelvagor, if you like. Supposed to represent that fellow Túrin Turambar, an' that he'll return like Eärendil to duel the Dark Lord when he comes back?”

“Precisely!” said Frodo, and smiled right up to his eyes at Sam, which made Sam's heart flutter. “Now, I'm quite certain say, Ted Sandyman wouldn't have been able to answer that.”

Sam's face was now aflush with a touch of animosity at the name Sandyman. “Aye, well, the millers don't know a butterfly from a bumblebee, so that's settin' the bar right low, Frodo – why, even in the ground.”

“Mmhm,” Frodo ruffled Sam's hair this time, “one day Sam, you're going to do something so very special, even you won't be able to say a humble word about yourself. And mark you, I'll be there, and even if you try I'm going to stop you. Consider it a promise.” Frodo smiled again, and pinched Sam's eartip.

Sam felt thoroughly tongue-tied but simultaneously aglow with delight. “I-I'll be waitin' of course, for it to happen an' all. An' that's a promise, too.”

“I suppose it would help if we stuck together, then; you know, so we can both witness your very special accomplishment, whenever it should happen.”

“That I wouldn't mind, leastways.” and very tentatively, to mirror Frodo – whose hand was still in Sam's hair – Sam raised a hand and touched it gently to Frodo's ebony locks. They were as soft as a baby chick's downy feathers, and smoother than the silk of a gentlehobbit's handkerchief.

There suddenly seemed to be a touch of red on Frodo's cheeks, that hadn't been there before, and unlikely to be the result of the lamp. “I'm very glad.” his voice was like the whisper of a breeze through the branches of an old tree.

They let the chorus of the crickets and the frogs overtake the night air, and in drowsing content looked at the distant stars far above them, or the swirling and dancing of the fireflies so near at hand. A few were taking risks and drawing nearer the hobbits than others, and of a sudden, one particular firefly seemed to grow greatly emboldened, and of all places alighted on Sam's nose.

Sam grew rigid and very still, even so far as crossing his eyes to peer at the miraculous happenstance. Frodo struggled to only move his eyes to marvel at the sight and leave it undisturbed, but his lips parted in a wide grin, and the look on his face was utterly adoring.

After a moment or two, Sam whispered, as the little bug crawled up the bridge of his nose, “Oh! Fair indeed t'meet you, it is.”

The firefly paused once it came to the middle of Sam's forehead, and flickered its light a handful of times, before taking off again in a glowing streak, leaving Sam to sigh with relief. He wasn't able to recover his breath immediately, however, as it was taken from him again by a soft and supple touch to his cheek.

There, Frodo had planted a kiss, and now nosed close to Sam's ear. “Even the fireflies know you're very special, Sam.”

Sam was utterly dumbfounded, and could only stir himself to cognitive thought once Frodo had turned his head back, and his breath was no longer ghosting Sam's cheek. Then, Sam turned his own head, and in a hurried and shy movement planted a kiss on Frodo's cheek. “Mayhap!” he replied in a rushed whisper, “But then they've got to know you are, too!”

“Hmm,” Frodo, still smiling, reached for Sam's hand, and held it. “Fair enough.”

The morning and the dew found them there still, dozing on their soft blue blanket, heads together and hand-in-hand.


End file.
